


to longer nights

by nightbloomings



Series: two if by chance [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 01:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5562844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloomings/pseuds/nightbloomings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a Christmas mini sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4447367">two if by chance</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to longer nights

**Author's Note:**

> I won't say that you need to have read [two if by chance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4447367) before reading this, but I would recommend it--there are a lot of references to the first fic that you won't get otherwise~
> 
> the title comes from _I Do Not Care For the Winter Sun_ by Beach House.
> 
> hope everyone's had a great holiday season ♥

It would be ideal to say that Dorian awoke on the morning of Christmas Eve to the sound of a low wind outside the bedroom window, or the smell of some delicious baked good wafting from the kitchen. Instead, though, it's the rustle of some noisy fabric less than an inch from his ear that does the job.

How quaint. A true Hallmark moment, to be sure.

Dorian turns his head towards the sound and finds himself face-to-snout with Dijon, who huffs at him in the way he always does when feeling impatient. And then, for good measure, Dijon licks a wide strip along the side of Dorian's nose.

"Eugh! Maker, Dijon—" he says with a groan, pushing the dog away. His hand connects not with fur, as he was expecting, but with polyester, cool to the touch. Dorian squints through the lingering drowsiness and realises that Dijon is wearing a vest—a puffy one. With a hood, even. "Now where did this come from…?" Dorian asks, smoothing a hand over the top of Dijon's head.

Then comes the sound of Cullen heading down the hall to the bedroom. His footsteps are heavy, like he's wearing boots. "Dijon," he whispers harshly as he appears in the doorway, snapping his fingers once. Dijon cocks his head to the side but he stays firmly planted amongst the bedding.

"It's alright," Dorian says, pulling himself up to sit. "The damage has been done. What are you doing home? I figured you'd be at the restaurant already."

Cullen shakes his head and calls for Dijon again—this time he obeys and hops of the bed, trotting past Cullen and down the hall. "We got most of our prep done last night, so I'm free for the time being."

Dorian smiles and stretches, fixing Cullen with a sly look. "Then you ought to take those silly boots off and get back in here with me."

Cullen smiles in return but he stays in the doorway. "Not this morning—we have plans. And since you're up, we can get an early start."

"Plans?" Dorian says, grimacing. "Have I forgotten something?"

"Not at all. But that's all you get for now, until you're ready to leave, so hop to it." Cullen claps his hands twice sharply, then turns and disappears down the hall. "Just make sure to dress warmly."

Dorian stares at the blank space in the doorway, puzzled. Cullen's never been one for much of a lie-in, but he doesn't often refuse an invitation to do other things in bed. The lug is up to something, clearly, but what?

Dorian shuffles out of bed, a few minutes later, after a quick check of his email—work is at a lull right now, being between seasons as they are, but Felix never ceases to find things to discuss and question.

In the shower, Dorian tries to guess what Cullen might have planned for this morning. He'd expected not to see Cullen until after tonight's dinner service, so he's already been thrown for a loop. In a good way, of course. This is their first Christmas in the same flat and only their second overall, and with the roaring success of Honnleath, Cullen's only free day will be Christmas Day itself. Even then, he's cautioned Dorian that he may need to duck in for a few hours. Back to back to back holiday parties and all the prep time they require has completely occupied all of Cullen's time since Thanksgiving. Dorian's tried to be understanding—and he is; he wants nothing more than for Honnleath to be successful for years to come. But he'd also like to have his boyfriend back, at least for one full day.

Showered and dressed in his warmest turtleneck, Dorian finds Cullen waiting by the door, Dijon's leash in hand.

"Ah, there he is," Cullen says with a broad smile. He reaches for Dorian's coat—the puffy one, which is reserved for the coldest stretch of the winter, in January and February. It had been buried in the closet, up until Cullen had fished it out, for some reason. "Here you go," he says, handing the coat to Dorian.

Dorian takes it, an eyebrow cocked at Cullen. "Did the temperature suddenly plummet overnight? It wasn't even below freezing yesterday."

Cullen huffs a laugh and shakes his head. "No more questions. Just put it on, will you? It's all part of the plan," he says, emphasising the last word with wiggling fingers.

"Right, right, okay…" Dorian slips the jacket on, already feeling too warm. "I suppose you've chosen my footwear for me too?" he asks, and Cullen just nudges at a pair of Dorian's more hardy boots with the toe of his own.

Dijon trots over then and sits next to Cullen, looking expectantly at the leash in his hand.

"Where did that vest he's wearing come from, anyway?" it's very unlike Cullen to put his dog in anything other than a plain leather collar.

"A store—what did I say about questions?" the corner of Cullen's lip hitches up, and he swings the front door open, ushering Dorian and Dijon out into the corridor.

When they make it downstairs to the street, they head off down the sidewalk hand-in-hand, Dijon trotting along up ahead. Dorian knows he's going to melt dead away if they go for a long walk while he's dressed in this coat, but he keeps the complaint to himself—for now—and follows Cullen's lead. He's expecting that they're headed towards Central Park, with the direction they've taken, but just as soon as he's decided that, Cullen takes them down a side street where his car is waiting just around the corner.

Cullen lets go of Dorian's hand and unlocks the can, ushering Dijon into the backseat. Then he crosses to the front passenger door and opens it, gesturing for Dorian to get in.

"We're driving somewhere?" Dorian asks, following after Cullen. "But you hate driving in the city." He hesitates getting into the car, still sceptical of what Cullen's up to.

"I do, but we're not, not really. We just need to get out of the city first—now, please?" Cullen nods towards the open door, a small smile on his lips.

Dorian pointedly narrows his eyes at Cullen, then does as he's asked, slipping into the seat as Cullen shuts the door after him.

He buckles his seatbelt while Cullen moves around to the driver's side of the car, and his knuckles connecting with something exceedingly hot—

There's a large carafe of coffee perched between the seats, awkward and precarious in the way it's balanced over the cup holders.

"We'll be in here a while, I gather?" Dorian asks, as Cullen settles in.

"Well I wasn't about to make you go all morning without coffee. I did do _some_ planning ahead, you know."

Dorian gives a short laugh. "That much is obvious. When are you going to tell me what's going on?"

Cullen doesn't answer, focusing instead on pulling out into the street—traffic is still quiet this early in the morning, so close to Christmas. "Did you notice the box of pastries?"

Dorian flicks his gaze forward, and sure enough, there's a small cardboard box on the dash in front of him. He reaches for it and settles back in his seat. "Don't think I haven't noticed you avoided my question, Rutherford." He opens the box to find three danishes inside, overloaded with filling. "Which would you like?"

Cullen shakes his head, focusing on changing lanes. They're headed north, towards the Lincoln Tunnel, if Dorian's guess is right. "Whichever one you don't want," Cullen says after a moment. "But the cherry one is for Dijon."

 

An hour later, they've cleared New Jersey, and another hour after that, they pass Poughkeepsie. Dorian's spent the time so far ignoring the lingering mystery of Cullen's plan and enjoying Cullen's company instead. But two hours is more than generous a break from interrogation, as far as he's concerned, and beyond that, the curiosity is too much to bear.

"So," Dorian starts, interrupting Cullen's humming along to Vance Joy on the radio. "Thus far we've passed New Jersey and Poughkeepsie. I know that now we're not going to an airport, so I suppose I can rule out any place tropical…"

"Would I have asked you to dress in your warmest clothes if we were going somewhere tropical?"

"Yes!" Dorian laughs, lightly smacking Cullen's shoulder. "That's exactly something you would do and you very well _know_ it."

Cullen laughs too, shrugging a little. "You're probably right."

"I hope that where it is, you've thought to pack _some_ clothes, because I doubt this is just a day trip by this point."

Cullen's smile shrinks to something small and soft. "All taken care of, love," he says, looking over at Dorian.

Dorian shakes his head, but he can't help his smile. "This is so premeditated, isn't it? It is. And I expected only to have you tomorrow, and maybe not all day, even. You kept saying you'd be working nonstop, that you couldn't afford to turn away all the business."

Cullen grins, clearly so satisfied with himself. "I lied," he says, his tone teasing. "Well, not about needing the business… but I've left things in capable hands so I'm all yours for a few days."

Dorian smiles, his heart swelling. "He reaches over, past the now half-empty carafe, and takes Cullen's right hand, where it rests on his thigh, twining their fingers together.

They carry on along the I-87, past Albany and Schenectady, before finally exiting off the highway at around the four-and-a-half-hour mark. The scenery around them has shifted into forest as they climb higher and higher into the mountains. They've arrived at Whiteface Mountain, a ski resort in the Adirondacks. But they bypass the centre of the resort for a small side road and pull up to a chalet, just after four o'clock. The sun is golden as it nears dark, glinting golden off all the snow surrounding them.

"Well, you were right about our final destination not being the tropics," Dorian says, as he stretches and shakes out his legs once out of the car.

Cullen lets Dijon out of the car, and the dog is clearly thankful to be free again—he barks twice and sets off on a tear around the car for a few laps.

"It does have a hot tub," Cullen says, moving to the trunk and pulling out the suitcase he had packed.

"Oh, well in that case… you do know I'm not much of a skier though, yes?"

"Skiing is only part of the attraction," Cullen says, leading Dorian towards the chalet and whistling for Dorian to follow. He looks at Dorian over his shoulder with a smirk. "Did I mention that there's a hot tub…?"

Dorian chuckles under his breath and pinches Cullen's waist as he follows him inside the chalet. "Oh, I haven't forgotten that part, don't worry." The foyer of the chalet leads to an open living area flanked by large windows and anchored on one side by a fireplace built into a riverstone wall. The ceiling reaches to the top of the second floor, and is crosshatched by broad, dark wood beams. The kitchen is tucked to the side, only just visible from the foyer, but the appointments Dorian can see, along with the furnishings in the living room, make quite the impression. "How did you come across this place, exactly?"

Cullen is busy toeing off his boots, apparently nonplussed over the chalet. "A client is lending it to us. A regular; the one who always books for business meetings, then spends the whole night taking his party on a tour of the wine list. I've mentioned him before."

Dorian nods, his recollection faint; Cullen seems to have a few regulars that fit that description. But no matter, no that they're here. "And he just offered it up?"

Cullen shrugs, in that noncommittal, nonchalant way of his, and Dorian knows then that he won't be getting all of the details. "We were discussing holiday plans a few weeks back, he said he'd have no use for this place, and dropped off the keys the next day."

"Let me guess—he's headed somewhere tropical?"

"Jealous?"

"Mmm, I think I could be quite content here," Dorian says, flashing Cullen a quick wink.

Cullen smiles, as he closes the distance between the two of them. He takes Dorian by the hips, his grip tight and insistent, and he kisses him deeply. Dorian wraps his arms around Cullen's shoulders, lifting up slightly on his toes to press even closer. They kiss as though it's their first in ages—and it is, Dorian distantly realises, if one considers 'the night before' to be ages. Which he does.

"Thank you for this," Dorian says, his voice quiet against Cullen's lips. "I was sure id' have you for half a day on Christmas, so to have you for two or three is the nicest surprise."

Cullen smiles and gives Dorian a last peck on the corner of his mouth. "Well, I'd be lying if I said my plan wasn't at least a _little_ bit selfish…"

"I think you've earned at least that much, for all the work you've put in."

"In that case, as my first act of selfishness, I'd like to get a few runs in before dinner. Would you join me?"

Dorian grimaces and wrinkles his nose. "What if I said no…?"

Cullen huffs and pulls away, leaning down to reach for the suitcase. "I'd say that's fine, but that you owe me at least a few runs together tomorrow." he sets off upstairs with the suitcase.

"Perhaps I'll feign injury…" Dorian murmurs, pulling an exaggerated frown at Dijon.

"Heard that!"

 

Dorian and Dijon leave Cullen at the equipment rentals kiosk, and he can barely muster a goodbye before he rushes off to be fitted. For their part, they walk through the small village, looking at all the shop windows and sampling as many treats from the various food stalls as they can manage.

"At least one of us won't have to worry about being too full for dinner later," Dorian tells Dijon, while feeding him half of a hot pretzel.

When Cullen finds them later, they're making their way through some turkey pepperoni, and he can only laugh at the sight of them.

Dorian—on the other hand—is taken aback by how relaxed Cullen looks after only an hour or so on the hills. His skin is flushed, especially over his cheeks, and his eyes have lost the slight crinkle that they've worn at the corners recently. It's a welcome sight.

They drive back to the chalet, to deposit Dijon and to get freshened up for dinner. And Cullen, who has apparently considered and planned every detail, has arranged for a car to pick them up. The restaurant is further up the mountain, amidst the forest, and it looks more like someone's house than a Michelin star restaurant—and when Cullen sees the somewhat-sceptical look on Dorian's face, he simply laughs and ushers them inside.

The scepticism was completely unwarranted though, of course, because Cullen picked the place and if there's one thing that Cullen knows better than anyone else, it's good restaurants. Their food is perfect and copious, as are the cocktails and wine, and when they're finished, Dorian's head is floating and he's thankful for the hired car.

Not least because of the private, spacious backseat, either.

It's awkward, trying to fumble around a house one isn't familiar with, while one's boyfriend is apparently thinking of nothing other than removing as much clothing as fast as possible. With jackets and shirts tossed aside, Cullen manages to guide them to the couch, pants open and pulled down just enough for Dorian's purposes. The only light in the room is the moonlight that's managed to push past the branches of the pines and evergreens but it's enough for Dorian to see the contortions of Cullen's face that accompany the gasps and groans—and the small smile that follows the sated sigh, afterwards. The couch is all well and good, but it isn't _enough_ , so they stumble upstairs to the bedroom with the door shut behind them.

They wake without an alarm—for the first time that Dorian can recall in a long time—and they take a long, hot shower together. After a quick walk with Dijon, Cullen and Dorian bundle up and drive over to the resort.

"I'd still like to know what it would take for me to get out of _this_ portion of the vacation…" Dorian says, as they stand in line at the equipment rentals kiosk.

Cullen makes a show of considering his options, tapping his chin with his forefinger. "I can't think of anything that you wouldn't also enjoy," he says finally, smirking.

Dorian huffs. "I don't see why that should be a deal breaker." They reach the front of the queue then, and the attendant asks hi3m for his shoe size. "Eleven," he says, after briefly considering answering with innuendo instead.

Naturally, all the size eleven boots are already out, and so Dorian take a ten and a half instead.

"At least you know they won't fall off," Cullen adds, oh-so-helpfully, as he's handed his boots by the attendant.

"No, but if my _feet_ do, it'll be you to blame."

The boots are snug, of course, but Dorian keeps a smile on his face—this is, after all, as much Cullen's vacation as it is his, and all Cullen wants is to get out on the hill.

Cullen leads them towards the Green Circle slope, and Dorian says a quiet thank you to whichever deity is responsible for ski hills. The few soft kisses he receives on the lift help too.

They slip off the lift at the top of the slope, and it's thankfully not terribly busy. Most of the resort is spending their Christmas morning still in bed, Dorian supposes.

"Perhaps we'll get you graduated to Blue Square before the day is over," Cullen says.

"I believe that depends on what sort of condition you want me in later."

Cullen looks back at Dorian with a cheeky smile, and Dorian can't help but laugh. It's distracting for long enough that it's not until the second half of the run down the slope that Dorian panics.

And falls.

He falls more times than he'd care to acknowledge, but his smarting arse isn't willing to let itself go unnoticed.

So when Cullen suggests they break for lunch, Dorian all but runs to the safety and comfort of the thickly-padded chair of the restaurant they chose.

Cullen opts for a beer with his lunch, while Dorian orders a half-carafe of cabernet sauvignon.

"You know, there are rules against skiing while drunk…" Cullen says, as Dorian pours a second glass for himself.

"Oh? Good, an added bonus to the way this is numbing my pain, then."

"You complain, but I haven't heard you laugh that much in a while."

Dorian reaches across the table and weaves his fingers together with Cullen's. "I did have fun, yes. I'll give you that. But, laughter through the pain—that's all I'll say."

Cullen chuckles, then squeezes Dorian's fingers before bringing his hand up to kiss the back of it. "Lucky thing for that hot tub, hmm?"

After lunch and one more glass of wine for Dorian, Cullen takes  a few runs down the Black Diamond slope—and Dorian can't exactly watch from where he sits at the base of the ski area, but he suspects by his easy gait and easier smile when they reunite that Cullen didn't fall once. If there's one thing he's come to know of his boyfriend, it's that he's a secret expert at everything he does, apparently.

Back at the chalet, they beeline to the bedroom for a nap. Dijon is happy to join too, wedging himself between Cullen's and Dorian's hips—a space which he's clearly too large to occupy comfortably, but he dog is nothing if not insistent.

Dorian wakes alone, later. How much later, he isn't certain, but the night has swallowed up the sun that still hung in the sky when they fell asleep. The next thing Dorian notices is the smell of food—delicious food. He dresses as fast as he can and rushes downstairs, suddenly feeling famished.

Cullen's by the dining table, setting out plates and platters of food.

"Oh, there you are," he says, when Dorian approaches. "I nearly sent Dijon up to wake you."

"When on Earth did you have time to make all of this? Did you even sleep?" Dorian runs a hand up Cullen's back, squeezing the back of his neck gently and running his fingers through the curls at the back of his head. Cullen's hair is at the length where he usually gets it all chopped off, Dorian notices, so he makes a point to savour it while he can.

Cullen smiles at Dorian's touch, blinking slowly. "Oh, I was asleep until half an hour ago, when the restaurant called to say the catering I'd arranged for was on its way."

Dorian shakes his head, bemused. "You've really thought of everything, haven't you?"

Cullen simply shrugs, a slight smirk still on his lips, and he pulls out a chair for Dorian. "Tuck in—the sooner we eat, sooner the hot tub…"

Which is all the incentive Dorian needs. The dinner is excellent, and were all of his joints not aching with every move, he'd be quite happy to sit at the table and eat all night. As it is, though, the promise of a long, hot soak is too much to delay.

So he can hardly be blamed for the low, drawn out groan he makes when he finally sinks into the water.

Cullen is eager to kiss the sound away, too, leaning into Dorian and pressing him against the side of the hot tub. The air around them is crisp and icy, and stray flakes of snow drift down. If they wake in the morning to a fresh blanket of snow, Dorian won't be surprised. Nor upset either, if it means an excuse to stay huddled up in the chalet with Cullen for another day. Of course there's life to get back to, a five-hour drive away, but a little more time to savour this seclusion and quiet with Cullen would be the only thing Dorian's wanting for.

Their kisses are slow, easy, soft, and Dorian's surprised when Cullen eventually pulls away. He's even more so, when Cullen gets out of the hot tub, the freezing air lifting off Cullen's heated, damp skin in thick plumes of vapour. He asks where Cullen is going, but doesn't get an answer.

Cullen returns after a few minutes, and he pulls a small, dark green velvet box, topped with a white satin ribbon, from behind his back before slipping into the hot tub again.

He hands the box over to Dorian, then wets both hands and runs them through his hair, one of them halting at the back of his neck.

"You cad," Dorian says as he takes the box. "We said we weren't doing any gifts this year!"

Cullen chuckles a little, his eyes fixated on the box where it sits in Dorian's hand. "It's not that… not exactly."

Dorian's stomach flutters with excitement—the no-gift rule had been his suggestion at first, but he can't deny that he loves receiving something all the same. And Cullen seems just as intent on him opening it, so he wastes no time in lifting the lid away, being careful not to get anything wet.

Inside the box is a white cushion, with a dark ring perched in the centre, and the moment he sees it, all of Dorian's breath rushes out of him.

"I— Maker, Cullen, is this… Are you…"

Cullen, still a cad, lets him sit and suffer a few moments more, before he laughs softly and reaches into the box with his thumb and forefinger.

The ring, up close, is a dark brushed metal band—titanium, if Dorian were to guess—with dark grey, multifaceted stones set in eight points around it. Dorian can't help but stare at it while Cullen holds it as he sets the box and lid aside. Dorian finally pulls his attention to Cullen's face when he takes his hand, and bless his heart because his grip is trembling slightly.

As though he should have any reason to doubt himself.

"I've wanted to do this for a while," Cullen says, after clearing his throat. "I've actually had the ring since the spring, but finding time… not even the _right_ time, per se, but just time in general…" He huffs, rubbing the tops of Dorian's fingers. "Well, anyway, that was half the reason for coming up here for a few days."

Dorian feels his throat tighten, and he tries to swallow past it, but still small tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He's seen each other as being their future for a long time, but still, to be in the moment is overwhelming.

"Apparently I wasn't exaggerating when I said that you've thought of everything," Dorian says, his voice a little thick.

Cullen chuckles and smiles—and the corners of his eyes are wet too. "If you only knew…" he drops his gaze to Dorian's hand, then squeezes it." But would you be with me?" he asks, looking up again before he closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Marry me, I mean. Damn it—"

"Of course, Cullen, goodness. Of course I would," Dorian says in one short breath, cutting Cullen off. "Please get that ring on my finger now so that I can hug you without the risk of it dropping into the water."

Cullen lets out a sharp laugh but does exactly that, slipping the ring onto Dorian's finger. He's able to pause to look at it for all of a half-second before Dorian is on him, arms wound around his neck and lips tight against his.


End file.
